


the sweetest sadness in your eyes

by wreckofherheart



Series: Handwriting On The Wall [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Post-World War II, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4192458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sequel to <b>these scars are just a trace</b>.]</p><p> </p><p> <i>She doesn’t want to be known as Colonel. That is too much responsibility; and she has had it with responsibility. She is not the same woman who joined the army all those years ago, at nineteen; she lied about her age and she wonders if that was honestly a mistake. Her entire life has been about the army, the war; she has been a devoted soldier, and now that it’s all over, well––what does that mean? All of that work, all of those orders, all of those poor, poor men.</i></p><p>  <i>     Hands under the table, she lowers her gaze from her commanding officer. He’s watching her fondly, and he expects her to be happy about this promotion. All soldiers love promotions. Don’t they?</i></p><p>  <i>     She whispers three words, leaking with shame and guilt.</i><br/> <br/><i>     ‘What did you say?’ He asks.</i></p><p>  <i>     Peggy hesitates, clenches and unclenches her fist. She clears her throat. </i></p><p>  <i>     ‘I said “God help me”, sir.’</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the sweetest sadness in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Please read **these scars are just a trace** before reading this story.
> 
> I was amazed at the positive response I received for this oneshot's predecessor, and so I had to try and write what happened next between Angie and Peggy. I really do hope you enjoy this one! Each kudos and comment I receive is such a huge deal to me, so thank you for your encouragement. 
> 
> Note that the effects of the war have taken a strain on Peggy, more so than in the _Agent Carter_ series.

     At this hour, the Automat is almost empty. The miserable linger, leave at midnight, and then the doors are closed until dawn. It’s winter, and it is beginning to snow. Light, delicate flakes fall from the dark sky, sticking to the ground. One of Angie’s colleagues mutters something under her breath. She’s worried her car won’t start––she has a long drive back home. Her thoughts are disturbed when a customer knocks the rim of his mug against the table, and asks for another coffee. 

     It’s odd that a fortnight ago, the end of the war was announced. Men, women and children danced in the streets, drinking champagne, lemonade, chanting the chorus of America. Sometimes, it’s very easy to forget that wars don’t end so abruptly. They last decades, a millennia. Too many soldiers have entered the Automat, stumbling on damaged feet, pale in the face, _lifeless_. It is _easy_ to forget about the soldiers who fought. Everybody is so wrapped up in the fantasy of soldiers being heroes that they forget said heroes are, in fact, _human_. 

     And a hero's worst enemy is themselves. 

     One friend’s uncle had committed suicide. Another’s son has turned into a hermit, refusing to leave his apartment, dying in his own stink. The latest was somebody Angie knew personally. A nice guy, he had a cute smile, and he always seemed so happy about everything. It was an all an act, she realised, when they found his body three days ago. He had shot a bullet through his skull, and the blood flashes in her mind every time she closes her eyes.

     The war isn’t over. Not really.

     Leaning across the counter, Angie idly watches the entrance of the diner. The snow is quickening, and it’s the first time in a while she’s felt excited. She _loves_ snow. She loves snowball fights, making snow angels, and snowmen. If she didn’t have such a late shift, she would already be out there. A long exhale escapes her parted lips. No more customers are arriving. For a while, she hoped the nice soldier she met on the stairwell might show up. Like she promised.

     When her shift comes to an end, she unties her apron and pretends she isn’t disappointed. The nice soldier will appear tomorrow, perhaps. Or maybe next week? One day, surely, she’ll appear. Unless the nice soldier is dead. 

     A corpse amongst many, forgotten.

~

     She’s given a promotion. _Another_ promotion. 

     ‘How does _Colonel_ sound?’

     It sounds false. A desperate attempt to keep her stable, whatever "stable" is. A desperate attempt to make things _normal_ again. They promote her urgently––soldiers are collapsing left and right. Her intellect, magnificence, what makes her so great, is becoming an extinct quality. Soldiers of her breed are rare to come by now. 

     She doesn’t want to be known as Colonel. That is too much responsibility; _and she has had it with responsibility_. She is not the same woman who joined the army all those years ago, at nineteen; she lied about her age and she wonders if that was honestly a mistake. Her entire life has been about the army, the war; she has been a devoted soldier, and now that it’s all over, well–– _what does that mean?_ All of that work, all of those orders, all of those poor, poor men.

     Hands under the table, she lowers her gaze from her commanding officer. He’s watching her fondly, and he expects her to be happy about this promotion. All soldiers love promotions. Don’t they?

     She whispers three words, leaking with shame and guilt.

     ‘What did you say?’ He asks.

     Peggy hesitates, clenches and unclenches her fist. She clears her throat. 

     ‘I said “God help me”, sir.’

~

     Days pass. 

     More days.

     The snow melts. The air freezes. And life is just a little bit greyer. 

     Peggy sees her through the window, serving a customer. She can turn away if she likes. She made a promise a very long time ago, but surely it is fine for her to break that promise. Heck, she has been forced to break many promises lately. _Colonel just doesn’t suit her._ She watches the Automat sign light up, on and off. The amount of times she’s passed this diner and never noticed it.

     Only a second. She only requires a second.

     Peggy turns on her heel to leave, but she stops when she realises Angie has seen her. She is a young, little thing. Peggy is grateful she never faced the war head on––not Angie. They’re frozen in place. Angie waits; she waits for Peggy to turn away and change her mind. Maybe this shouldn’t be so. Maybe Peggy can’t handle friendship right now, or anything of the sort. Maybe she can’t handle _anything_. Attachment is suddenly terrifying. 

     And yet, she opens the door to the diner and steps inside. It’s considerably warmer. She can smell coffee mixed with something sweet. One customer recognises her uniform, and minds his own business. Peggy unbuttons her jacket and proceeds to the front, draping her jacket over the back of a chair and sitting down. She studies the drinks menu attached to the wall. Nothing particularly interests her. 

     ‘Can I get ya anythin’?’ Angie asks, moving over towards her.

     ‘Just a tea, please, with milk.’

     Angie lingers momentarily, frowning slightly at the other woman’s cool behaviour. She slides a mug in Peggy’s direction and pours her drink. She tries to tease her. ‘Thought you’d forgotten about me.’

     It works. Sort of. Peggy’s smile is only half sincere. ‘I haven’t been able to get away, unfortunately.’ She doesn’t drink the tea. 

     ‘How’s the shoulder?’

     ‘Stiff. It aches when the temperature is cold, especially when it’s rainy.’ 

     ‘That’s pretty common, right? I heard stories about soldiers from the war––got wounds like you. Is it true they sometimes don’t take the bullet out?’

     ‘Sometimes, yes. It’s infection you have to be cautious about.’

     Peggy isn't looking at her. She’s not necessarily looking at anything. It’s as if the soldier Angie met months ago has disappeared. What’s before her is instead a shell of what Peggy was, and it saddens her. She wants to know what Peggy was like before the war; she wants to see that smile again. How many more unhappy soldiers are there? And why them?

     Why do _they_ suffer?

     ‘You a’right, hon?’ It’s a stupid question, but Angie doesn’t know what else to say. Peggy is _not_ all right. She’s sick. She’s not well. She’s miserable. She’s still recovering, and it may be that she’ll never recover completely. She’s attended too many funerals, held too many dying people in her arms, watched too many of her friends collapse beside her, bullets shot through their skin. 

     Peggy doesn’t lie. ‘Yes, of course.’ Unless the situation requires her to.

     Angie glances at her fellow colleague who’s busy dealing with a customer. She leans over to Peggy. ‘Ya can talk to me, English. I know I’m just a gal in an apron, but I can still bend an ear for ya.’

     ‘No, honestly: I’m fine.’

     Angie scrunches her nose, unconvinced. ‘You coulda fooled me.’ 

     Peggy finally looks her in the eye, and it’s then Angie is reassured that there are some pieces of Peggy left. She’s still the same woman she met on the stairwell. Still the same soldier who had lost her faith in God. Peggy is the same, except this time, she simply lacks a _purpose_. On the stairwell, she was certain to return to the frontline. Fighting was her purpose, her reason to keep on breathing.

     But now? 

     Wounded soldiers are thrown out like dogs. Soldiers are poor, some living on the streets, and it’s a mess. The whole thing is a goddamn _mess_. It’s impossible to go back to who they were before. They’ve seen too much, weeped over so many dead soldiers––stuck at home, resting on an armchair (if lucky), with only one leg to stand on, what’s the point?

     ‘I got a promotion.’

     Angie holds back from congratulating her. Wisely.

     ‘I couldn’t accept.’ Peggy’s hand slips from her mug. She then chuckles. Humourless. ‘But, alas, I had no choice. Either I am promoted as Colonel, or I walk away.’ She pauses. ‘Anyway. Enough about me, please. How have you been?’

     Not many customers ask Angie about her health. She’s mildly startled at the question. ‘Oh! Me? I’m okay. I’ve, uh, just moved into a new apartment actually.’ 

     ‘Have you unpacked?’

     ‘Yeah. Not much to unpack.’ Leaving her father’s home was probably one of the most exhilarating feelings she’s ever endured. But she doesn’t discuss her father, and she’s unwilling to share the details with Peggy who has enough on her plate. ‘You should come round and check it out.’

     Peggy nods. ‘I may do, in the near future.’

     ‘Yeah, right. I know better than to trust you on that.’ Angie glances at the clock. ‘My shift finishes in thirty minutes. I’ll take you back with me.’

     If this was an invitation from anybody else, Peggy would have declined immediately. She’s familiar with these invites and what they involve. 

     This isn’t the war anymore, though. This is a sweet waitress she knows little about. They may never know each other properly, as friends or lovers should. Peggy thinks about the soldier on the stairwell, with his bandaged head, droopy eyes, and empty presence. His story: a soldier and civilian meeting in a hospital.

     Fate does not promise much. It's all grim and bad.

     Except this time.

     This time, there's a little light in this bleak life.

     Company would be nice for a change. Company that is not associated with work. Angie smiles at her, and attends to another customer. Peggy looks at the clock, and then at her tea. It’s getting cold. She won’t drink it. Eating and drinking have become a chore, and it’s not necessarily this sort of substance that she needs. Peggy watches Angie from where she sits. She has a delicate frame, smooth, gentle hands and she carries a sort of childish manner. 

     She’s pretty. Anybody with sight can figure that out.

     But what leans Peggy towards her is beyond her pretty face. The little optimism Angie possesses is something Peggy is desperate to possess once again herself. It’d be nice to smile again, and actually _smile_. To stop drowning in a spiral of hollow darkness, with nothing to catch her fall. If she doesn’t find something––someone––to hold onto, her spine will snap.

     Peggy waits until thirty minutes has gone, and follows Angie out of the diner and into the cold night.

~

     ‘You’re quite sure you’re happy for me to stay here?’

     ‘ _Yes_! Jesus, Peggy, do I have to tell you again?’ There’s laughter in her voice, and it’s a pleasant tune to Peggy’s ears. Laughter. She hasn’t heard laughter in weeks. ‘I want you to stay here.’ They catch each other’s gaze and share a smile. Angie points towards a cupboard. ‘You’ll find a little something in there––help yourself. I won’t be a sec.’ 

     Angie disappears into another room. Peggy strips off her jacket and studies the apartment. It’s warmer in here than the diner. There are a few fading, black and white photographs on her mantlepiece, possibly of family members and friends––it’s hard to tell. Several novels are stacked beside her bed, and Peggy notices a few play scripts on her desk and on the floor, possibly forgotten, possibly thrown aside in fury. One of the scripts has a huge cross marked over the front page.

     Opening the cupboard, Peggy feels a smile pull at her lips when she discovers a bottle of alcohol, and two empty glasses. Due to her own self discipline, Peggy has avoided alcohol at all costs, no matter how tempting it has been to taste some. However, Angie did offer, and Peggy had a hunch she wouldn’t be so pleased if Peggy refused. She takes the glasses and the bottle.

     ‘Never took you for the rebellious type,’ Peggy calls out.

     Angie returns, grinning ear-to-ear. ‘Then you’d better brace yourself, hon: I’m full of surprises.’

     ‘Mm-Hm.’ Peggy sips her drink. Immediately her body reacts, and she feels her muscles loosen beneath her shirt. The heaviness in her head starts to weaken, and it’s easier to breathe. A little more at ease, Peggy sits down on the nearest chair while Angie picks up the neglected script on the floor. ‘I didn’t know you were a performer,’ Peggy says.

     ‘What?’ Angie asks absently. She looks at the script. ‘Oh, right! Well––yeah, I sort’ve am.’

     ‘Sort of? What does that mean?’

     ‘It means _sort of_.’ Angie places the script onto her desk. ‘I didn’t get the part.’

     ‘I’m sorry,’ Peggy softens her expression. ‘Maybe next time?’

     ‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Angie brightens up when she spots the glass of alcohol in Peggy’s hand. ‘That stuff is over ten years old––Daddy gave it to me before––’ She stops, pauses, and then quickly says, ‘––Nah, it was his favourite.’ She takes her glass which Peggy has poured out for her. 

     Peggy frowns. ‘What was your father like?’

     ‘I don’t wanna talk about that, Peg.’ The sudden crispness in her tone shuts Peggy up. Silence flutters between them for a moment. A warm, lingering silence. Angie kneels beside her, resting against the chair’s arm. ‘D’you have a family?’

     ‘More or less. In England. I have a sister, but my parents passed away when I was very small. So I was raised by my aunt before I came here.’

     ‘Will you go back to England? I’ve always wanted to go!’

     Peggy snorts at her enthusiasm. ‘If I ever intend to return, you're more than welcome to accompany me.’

     ‘That sounds nice.’

     ‘It does sound nice,’ Peggy agrees. 

     Angie sighs and rises to her feet. ‘I’m gonna make a warm drink. D’you want one?’

     ‘No. Thank you.’

     ‘A’right. Well, if you change your mind...’ Angie disappears into the other room again. 

     Peggy falls back into her chair, and finishes most of her alcohol. She hears Angie switch on the radio, and light jazz quietly emits into the room. Peggy taps her finger against her glass, and goes over the conversation she had with her commanding officer before. Colonel.  _That sounds good, doesn’t it? Colonel Carter._ Peggy winces. It doesn’t sound good at all and surely she, of all people, does not deserve a promotion. What about the poor souls who lost their lives, or those that cannot walk?

     What about the missing, like James Barnes and Steve Rogers?

     Do they deserve promotions?

     Or is there any point in rewarding the dead?

     She starts to wonder what Steve would think about her promotion. Of course he’d be proud. _Of course_. He was always overjoyed whenever his best girl received recognition––‘ _like you deserve_ ,’ he’d say, rosy cheeked and beaming. He’d want her to feel happy about her promotion.

     That’s what _he’d_ want.

     A sharp stab of pain is felt across the back of her shoulder. Peggy inhales sharply and sits upright, lowering her glass. The pain travels down her spine, and over her right arm––the pain is so overwhelming it actually makes it hard for her to breathe. It’s as if a red, hot iron has been pressed to her shoulder and there isn’t any way in which she can shake it off.

     ‘Shoulder causing you problems again?’ Angie asks, reappearing with a mug in her hand.

     ‘Yes, I’ll be fine, though. Just––’ Peggy groans, ‘––It’ll pass.’

     Angie places her mug down and walks over. She stops at the back of Peggy’s chair, and gently presses a hand just above Peggy’s bullet wounds. Peggy stiffens at her touch. ‘I think you’re too tense.’ Angie pushes her thumb into her shoulder blade, smoothing it across. Her other hand joins. ‘You need to give yourself a break, hon, otherwise you’ll hurt yourself.’

     ‘Bit too late for that,’ Peggy exhales slowly. ‘That feels really good actually.’

     For the next couple of minutes, Angie massages Peggy shoulder and upper back. Miraculously, the pain fades, and, somehow, all of Peggy’s worries aren’t important anymore. The promotion, the deceased soldiers, whatever happens next––it doesn’t matter. It’s not important. _It’s all going to be okay in the end_. Peggy sighs. 

     ‘Mm, thank you, doctor.’

     She leans back into her, relaxed and content. Yes. She feels _much_ better.

     Angie’s hands move away from Peggy’s shoulder, and she reaches over to take the glass out of Peggy’s hand. Peggy says nothing, and watches Angie appear in her line of vision again. She pushes the glass onto the table, and focusses her attention on Peggy. There’s something softer in her expression: she’s nervous, a little uncertain, but her softness is mainly directed at the soldier seated in her chair.

     The stairwell comes to mind again. The scent of nicotine. Angie remembers mistaking Peggy for an angel.

     It causes her to smile slightly, lean forwards and kiss Peggy’s lips.

     She hovers a mere inch from her for a second. Her breath tickles her nose, and her heart jumps when she kisses her again––pushing her body up against hers. Their kiss gradually deepens, they grow more accustomed to one another, a little more certain. Angie’s eagerness, her youth––whatever it is––gets the better of her, and she straddles Peggy’s lap, hands already unbuttoning her shirt. 

     A cool shiver travels up her spine as she feels Peggy’s palms on her thighs, slipping beneath her skirt, smoothing her hands across her flesh. Her fingers tickle. Their kiss ends abruptly. Colour reaches Peggy’s cheeks, and she moves in to kiss Angie’s neck, and her collarbone. Angie lets out a small moan, shuddering. 

_She_ feels really good. 

     They touch and kiss and gasp; finding each other in the little light they share, rocking into each other, unfolding. 

     Peggy stays.

~

     Sunlight floods in through the window, and Angie awakes startlingly. She turns her head, half dazed, and watches Peggy finish getting dressed. She’s done buttoning her shirt, and zips up the back of her dress. It’s at that point she realises Angie’s eyes are on her. Angie raises a brow at her, sitting upright, draping the sheets over her shoulders and naked body as Peggy pulls on her boots.

     ‘Thinkin’ of sneaking out on me, huh?’

     ‘Believe me, if I wanted to escape unnoticed, I would have left by now.’ She ties her shoelaces and approaches Angie on the bed. She fiddles with her cuff, and smiles, sympathetically, sorry, _regrettably._ ‘I have to go.’ There is never a purely happy smile from Peggy.

     There’s always another emotion muddled in.

     It’s what makes Peggy such a riddle.

     ‘You’ll come back?’

     ‘Of course.’ Angie squints at her, suspicious. Peggy kisses her cheek. ‘I promise.’

     ‘Hm.' Angie grabs Peggy by her collar and kisses her mouth. 'I’ll hold you to that.’

     ‘Do.’

     Peggy flings her jacket over her shoulder and turns to look at Angie. 

     She expects the ghosts of her friends to call her stupid. Stupid Peggy. Mad Margaret. Leaving a girl like this. Angie is patient, allowing Peggy to go, disappear from her life altogether if she so wishes. She allows her to lie, if her promise is a lie. 

     The sunlight caresses her bare shoulder, warm and soft to touch. Her unruly hair, sleepy eyes, dazed expression––all of these wonderful traits about her that make Angie appear so innocent and, yet, fetching all the same. Peggy is charmed; she feels her cheeks redden. Not out of embarrassment, or the very fact she did indeed sleep with this lovely woman.

     It’s a different feeling.

     A feeling which consumes her entirety, makes her palms clammy, makes her absence hurt.

     This feeling is love.

     ‘How long are you in New York for?’ Angie asks.

     ‘I’m not sure,’ Peggy replies honestly. ‘A few weeks, at least.’

     ‘Oh.’ Angie shrugs, unconcerned. She expects as much. ‘If you are around, then you’ll know where to find me.’

     Peggy inhales deeply, nods, and smiles. ‘Thank you.’ And it’s a thanks for many things; too many things for her to voice. Peggy opens the door, and leaves, closing it behind her. Angie tightens the sheets around herself, and listens to Peggy’s footsteps through the wall, down the hallway.

     She listens to the sound of what could have been, what should have been.

     An almost lover.


End file.
